Naptown Awake!
(originally appeared in culturecloud)

It's a strange thing, Indy being in contention. As fondly as it's loved by the locals, the town's self-image on the world stage falls somewhere between apologetic bashfulness and a gnawing inferiority complex, like the kid in a choir who's careful to keep his voice softer than those around him. Not that we have anything to apologize for — Naptown is home to world-class museums and cultural institutions, a rich history of jazz and industrial might, and a quality of life any family could embrace. But some combination of protestant reserve, down-home sensibility, and agrarian pragmatism keeps us from crowing too loudly to outsiders, and makes us soft targets for the taunts of bigger cities. Even our success in the 2000 NBA Eastern Conference Finals won us only scorn, with headlines like "HICKS NIX KNICKS IN SIX." In game six of the following championship series, the security staff at L.A.'s Staples Center began preparing for the post-game celebration with time still left on the clock, busily stringing rope and stanchion around the court — even though we were only five points behind — even though Reggie Miller, the greatest clutch player in league history, had once scored eight points in 8.9 seconds. But be serious; there was no way the Lakers were going to lose to a bunch of Hoosiers anyway.

Traditionally a basketball town, Indy's NFL history began in 1984 with a fleet of rented Mayflower vans and a stadium built on spec named the Hoosier Dome, bringing to mind images of corrugated aluminum and plywood. It took a while for us to warm to the erstwhile Baltimore Colts, and who could blame us? John Elway, the first player drafted to play in Indy, forced a trade to the Denver Broncos, leaving us with compulsive gambler and doomed soul Art Schlister, whose passing arm was under constant threat of breakage by angry mobsters. A revolving door of coaches and quarterbacks brought us records like 3-13, 4-12, 1-15 ... only in 1995 were we given our first taste of real success with a Cinderella season behind scrappy retread Jim "Captain Comeback" Harbaugh, who brought us within a last-second Hail Mary pass of the Super Bowl — only to fall short once again.

Finally, in 1998, the Colts began to put the pieces together. Universally despised owner Bob Irsay had died the previous year (God rest his soul, etc.), leaving his far-cooler, generally loved son Jim in charge. Peyton Manning, taken with the first pick in the draft, could only repeat the 3-13 record of the previous season — but his potential was already clear. Future legend Marvin Harrison showed his first signs of greatness at wide receiver. With the addition of Edgerrin James to continue our succession of league-leading running backs, and a breakout 13-3 season in 1999, the future seemed bright at last.

But no — it wouldn't be so easy. Instead, we began a stubborn tradition of great seasons followed by playoff futility, never more heartbreakingly than in the past four seasons. In 2002, Marvin Harrison shattered regular-season receiving records ... and the Colts were humiliated 41-0 by the New York Jets in the first round of the playoffs. In 2003, the Colts surged to a 12-4 record and a playoff campaign in which we went two straight games without a punt, and reached the AFC Championship game ... only to fall victim to the mauling of our receivers by the Patriots secondary, the indifference of the officials, and the swirling snows of Foxboro. In 2004, Peyton broke Dan Marino's touchdown record ... en route to a touchdown-free playoff loss to the Patriots. In 2005, the Colts flirted with an undefeated season ... until their luck turned with the suicide of Coach Tony Dungy's son James and an underachieving divisional round loss to the Steelers.

Reflect on that for a moment: the Colts had notched one of the best four-year runs in league history during the regular season, only to fall miserably short in each postseason. It made it hard to enjoy regular season games, knowing that even a 13-game winning streak hadn't meant anything in the long run. Come playoff time, our hallmark grace and crispness were nowhere to be seen, further fuelling the endless offseason carping by out-of-town critics that Peyton couldn't win the big game, and Dungy couldn't either; that the Colts were paper tigers, fundamentally undermined by an unreliable defense. After a while, we started to believe it ourselves. Who did we think we were? Boston, Dallas, Pittsburgh, Chicago — those were the homes of champions. Naptown? Not even in our dreams.

Until last night. Things started poorly, with that sickeningly familiar Colts-in-the-playoffs feeling. We'd scrapped our way through the early rounds as the wounded pride of our defense made up for the rickety performance of our offense, only to earn a conference final against our eternal nemeses the Patriots. Now, Peyton once again looked rattled in the pocket, and we quickly found ourselves on the wrong side of a 21-3 score. Once again, the Charlie Brown of the NFL was becoming airborne as Lucy pulled the football away. But no — something was different this time. Thirty-five second-half points for the Colts. Lucky breaks that went our way for a change. Calm leadership by Peyton and the coaching staff, heroic stands by our much-maligned defense, highlight-reel plays by our offense. Even as the final minute ticked away, thought, the outcome was in question. In the darkest corner of our soul, we had to ask — how would Tom Brady, America's Favorite Quarterback, and Bill Belichick, Football Genius, beat us this time?

He wouldn't. Final score: 38-34 Colts. Colts win. Colts win? COLTS WIN!

As fans flooded the field and swarmed downtown streets, it seemed unthinkable that we had finally made it to the Super Bowl. Today, the euphoria is still palpable. The malls are awash in blue-and-white jerseys, and the whole town has been stamped with more horseshoes than a Hee Haw box set. Local sportscasters and news anchors are giddy, and the weatherman predicts skies that are "Colts blue." People in bigger cities know how to maintain their composure; New Yorkers would just take it as their due. Here, it's nothing but shit-eating grins. Things like this just don't happen in Indianapolis. Not to hicks like us, with our rural accents and our guileless amiability and our go-ahead-you-take-it deference to more assertive out-of-towners.

Honestly, we just don't know how to feel.

But we're having a good time figuring it out.